


home by morning (fuck it, i do)

by oculata



Series: the beginning of forever [12]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 10x08, Canon Compliant, Fashionista!Mickey, Feelings, Gap Filler, M/M, Season/Series 10, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oculata/pseuds/oculata
Summary: The night and morning before everything fell apart.(10x08 fill-in fic)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: the beginning of forever [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524932
Comments: 22
Kudos: 142





	home by morning (fuck it, i do)

**Author's Note:**

> that episode hurt. i'm sad and conflicted. this hurt to write, too.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_clennam)
> 
> **edit 1/1/2020: after reading[this Twitter thread](https://twitter.com/mickeyuwu/status/1211790336168583169), i realized that i missed a crucial detail about canon—they went home to get dressed for their wedding! the bulk of this story is the same, but i added in some more detail about them going home and changing. enjoy! sorry for the oversight. thanks to all my friends on Twitter who supported this addition!**

Though Ian had gone to bed hours ago, he was having a hard time staying asleep. His mind kept partially rousing him in half hour intervals, never enough to knock him from his slumber completely but enough to make him aware of the absence of the body that he expected to be next to him. 

Mickey had left the house hours earlier under the vague guise of “working”, and Ian couldn’t bite his tongue about his concern regarding the situation. He’d spent nearly twenty-five minutes arguing back and forth with Mickey about what exactly “working” entailed, who he would be with, was there any chance of him getting caught, what the actual fuck kind of legitimate work required him to leave at eleven o’clock at night. Mickey’s responses to his concerns didn’t exactly calm him either—more vague promises of how “everything’s fine, Ian, don’t worry about it.” It wasn’t that Ian didn’t trust him or his judgement, he was just scared of any reality where Mickey somehow wasn’t with him again.

But, eventually, Mickey couldn’t stay any longer because the matter—whatever the hell it was—was time sensitive. Ian accepted the fact that he couldn’t get Mickey to stay and had to trust that Mickey would come back home to him later. Mickey gave him a quick kiss, promised he would be home before morning, and left the house. Ian watched him from the living room window until the night swallowed his form.

Ian trusted him, so he went to bed as he normally did, but something in his subconscious kept jostling him awake. He could feel the hours ticking by as some surge of anxiety would leap out in his chest and pull him awake. He would feel around Mickey’s side of the bed before he would eventually realize that Mickey wasn't there yet, sigh, and fall back asleep for another half hour or so. He knew Mickey would come home—he _had_ to come home—and he found himself frustrated with his body purposefully making it so he’d have a shitty night of sleep. Mickey was probably already headed home; Ian just needed to calm the fuck down. He said he’d be home before morning, and the crack in the curtains indicated that it was still the dead of night. Then again, it _was_ winter, so the darkness outside could be either three A.M. or six A.M. or maybe he was mistaking the dark curtains for the outside all together. _God_ , just calm the fuck down, he promised he would come home.

Evidently, Ian’s body playing alarm clock was useless anyway because when Mickey came home at a quarter to five, Ian was so deeply asleep that not even the insanely loud shutter of their door roused him. He stirred awake when he felt the comforter lift off of him and a rush of cold air whizz across his arms. Then he felt mattress sink behind him in the most familiar way. He turned around to his companion, barely conscious and half worried that it was a dream, but then Mickey’s scent drifted over to him.

“Mickey?” he rasped, his tone hopeful even though it was clouded by sleep.

“Hey,” Mickey whispered, tucking himself against Ian’s body. He wrapped a hand around Ian’s neck and slotted their lips together into a chaste, reassuring kiss. “Sorry I’m late. Took a while to get everything situated.” He kissed him again then slid his hand down to rest it on Ian’s side.

“Where were you?”

“Workin’ with my dad,” Mickey replied, holding his breath as he awaited Ian’s reaction.

Ian was silent as he processed the information. “Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Yeah, totally fine, man,” Mickey said, exhaling a relieved breath that Ian didn’t bite his head off. He kissed Ian again, stroking his boyfriend’s side with his thumb. “Safe ‘n everything. Probably not gonna be doin’ much there past that.”

Ian waited to see if Mickey would volunteer more information, but the silence only grew. Ian knew it was probably more a matter of protecting him from whatever was going on with Terry. At least he had the reassurance that Mickey was safe and, importantly, back home with him where Ian could hold onto him.

“Okay. Good.”

Though Ian didn’t see it because of the darkness and his eyes threatening to close on him, Mickey smiled at him before he inched closer and snuggled against his body. He pressed his face into Ian’s neck, dropped his arm so it was cradling Ian’s side, and sunk into the feeling of security.

“Night. Love you,” Mickey said, voice a bit muffled by Ian’s skin.

Ian dipped his head down and sunk his nose into Mickey’s hair, allowing the smell of his boyfriend to calm him. He placed a kiss onto Mickey’s head and felt his body relax.

“Night, Mick. Love you, too,” he mumbled into Mickey’s scalp.

Ian stayed asleep for the rest of the night.

* * *

Morning came, and Mickey awoke first. He and Ian were both lying on their backs parallel to each other, and in the space between them, Mickey’s hand was gently laid atop Ian’s. Mickey gave Ian’s hand a gentle squeeze before he began sitting up in bed to stretch his arms.

His movements stirred Ian, whose eyes shot awake in a panic because he was terrified that, despite how real it felt, Mickey may not have actually come home. He darted his gaze towards Mickey’s side of the bed, and he only felt relief when he saw Mickey’s back and disheveled black hair. Mickey’s arms were stretched above his head as if he was trying to touch the sky.

Ian gently tapped him on the hip, and Mickey easily turned around to look at him with a sleepy grin.

“Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” Ian returned as he sat up. He kissed Mickey’s cheek, smiling when Mickey responded to the gesture with a bashful little giggle. He didn’t think he would ever get tired of that sound. “How’d you sleep?”

“Alright,” Mickey said. “Woke up cold a few times, though, ‘cause someone was hoggin’ all the blankets.” Ian laughed and muttered an apology. “What about you?”

“Pretty good.” Ian’s stomach emanated a low noise. “Apparently I’m pretty hungry, though. You wanna try making some pancakes?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows as he pondered the suggestion. “Fuck it. Let’s try.”

Twenty minutes and some playful bathroom bickering later, the two men were downstairs in the kitchen and bickering even more about which recipe to go with. It seemed like every recipe they encountered either called for too much butter, which Ian was appalled by, or called for not enough sugar, which Mickey proclaimed was a goddamn mortal sin.

Eventually, they found a recipe that they both could tolerate. Mickey retrieved a bowl and measuring cups and placed them on the single unoccupied space of the counter.

“Okay, so it says ‘in a large bowl, whisk together sugar, flour, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg,’” Ian said slowly.

Mickey furrowed his brows and began digging through cupboards, picking out the ingredients one by one and setting them around the bowl. After a brief search for nutmeg, with Ian behind him suggesting places the ingredient could be, Mickey flung the cupboard he was looking through closed and turned around to his boyfriend.

“There’s no fuckin’ way you guys have nutmeg.”

“Do we _really_ need it, though?”

Mickey kissed his teeth and sent an expression Ian’s way that showed he was disgusted that Ian would suggest such a sacrilege thing at all. 

“Yes, we fuckin’ need it.” He walked over to Ian and crowded his space as he tried to look at Ian’s phone. “What else do we need?”

“Uh,” Ian began, scrolling through the screen to the ingredients list. “Milk, eggs, butter, vanilla ex—”

Ian was cut off by Mickey sharply moving away from him and towards the refrigerator. He opened the door and scanned the contents. “If there’s no eggs and—” He picked up the pint of milk and shook the hollow carton. “—barely any milk left, I’m damn near positive that there’s no nutmeg or vanilla extract.” He returned the carton, closed the fridge, and leaned against it with his arms crossed over his chest.

“We can go out for pancakes?” Ian suggested with a smile as he pocketed his phone.

Mickey softened and waddled over to his boyfriend, throwing himself into his arms. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go out.”

They kissed and stood in the quiet kitchen for a moment before returning upstairs to get dressed.

* * *

They had taken about twenty steps out of the diner, giddy with excitement to go to the courthouse when Mickey suddenly stopped walking in the middle of the street. Ian went a few steps more before he realized that his fiancé was no longer at his side. He swung around in a panic, almost throwing his flailing arms into a woman who happened to be too close.

“Sorry,” he muttered at her distractedly before looking down the busy street in search of his fiancé. Luckily, Mickey was immediately visible and not far behind, and Ian let out a relieved sigh. But then the anxiety rose up again because the expression on Mickey’s face was a rather concerning degree of contemplative.

Ian could feel his heart sink in his chest and fall only further as he advanced on Mickey.

“Everything okay?” Ian said, dancing his fingertips on the back of Mickey’s hand.

Mickey narrowed his eyes as he looked Ian up and down then did the same to himself. When he looked into Ian’s eyes again, his expression was resolute.

“There’s no fuckin’ way we’re gettin’ married with you in those fuckin’ sweatpants,” he stated, nothing in his tone giving the impression that he would be wavering in his stance.

Ian caught his breath—he’d had a few fleeting fears cross his mind as he got closer to Mickey and was able to better see the severity of his countenance, but none of them were the actual reason for Mickey’s deliberation. He exhaled slowly, feeling the air shake about in his mouth as he regarded his fiancé, whose eyes were still darting between Ian’s face and Ian’s red sweatpants.

“Is that it?”

Mickey furrowed his brows in confusion. “Yeah, that’s it.” He paused and looked Ian over again. “I mean, that shirt looks like shit so we’re definitely changin’ that, too.”

Ian smiled and took Mickey’s hand.

“Alright,” he agreed before leading them towards the train station.

* * *

Shirtless and with various tops and jackets laid out on the bed, the two men debated amongst their choices. Even the decisions that were already made were still contentious issues.

“You’re really gonna wear those fuckin’ slacks?” Mickey asked again, this time with a bit more insistence because he had broached the subject a few times already in gentler ways, and Ian only brushed him off.

“What’s wrong with them?” Ian half-shouted, looking down at his lower half in search of any answer at all.

“We’re gettin’ married, and you look like you’re gettin’ ready for your first day of boarding school,” he commented.

Ian gave him a defeated look, accompanied with an even more defeated sigh. “These are the nicest pants I own, Mick.”

Mickey sunk the corners of his mouth against his gums as he stared at Ian’s pants and how the belt sat high on his waist, making his torso look almost hilariously short in comparison to his legs. He decided to plead his case one last time.

“They make your legs look like fuckin’ toothpicks.”

“Oh my God,” Ian heaved and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Alright, alright,” Mickey conceded with a huff, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Fine. But right after we finish, we’re goin’ to the fuckin’ mall or something.”

Ian smiled and dropped a kiss onto Mickey’s cheekbone. He nodded at his fiancé and felt his grin grow wider when Mickey’s bright, blue, hopeful eyes met his. It looked like stars had taken residence in his gaze. Ian was touched by how perfect Mickey wanted their little wedding to be.

“If you’re gonna wear the nerd pants, I think the flannel’ll look nice,” Mickey remarked, pointing at the article strewn across the bed.

They finished getting ready with minimal bickering, mostly making mindless jokes and nervous references to the ceremony that was barely an arm’s reach away. Their final disagreement on dress came from them trying to decide who should wear the silver jacket and who should wear the black one.

Mickey regained the same contemplative expression as he scanned Ian’s form. “Nah, switch. Black’ll look better with the flannel,” he said, picking at and waving the fabric of the flannel.

Ian nodded, unwilling to disagree further with whatever vision Mickey had for their special moment, and began to disrobe. They switched, and finally, their outfits felt complete.

They stood in silence for a moment, regarding each other’s bodies and the clothes that adorned them. Mickey thought Ian looked as handsome as ever—barring the nerdy pants and ridiculous belt that he was determined to sort out the second they were married. He couldn’t have his husband walking around the world in those pants—”nicest pants I own” his fucking ass.

Across from him, Ian could see Mickey’s expression shifting as he focused on his sacrilege pants, but what he was far more taken aback by was how Mickey seemed to almost glow. It was as if the title of fiancé lit a beacon inside Mickey because Ian could see his posture was straighter, his skin looked softer, and his eyes seemed to twinkle whenever he looked at Ian. Eventually, Mickey’s eyes worked their way back up Ian’s body and up to his face, and the moment felt euphoric. They were dressed and about to be wed—they would come home, and though they would look the same, there would just be something intrinsically different about the energy radiating between them. They seemed to be having the same thought because, as if on cue, they giggled at each other.

“Ready?” Ian asked, taking Mickey’s fingers in his hand, dragging his thumb over the ring finger.

Mickey sent a small, almost shy smile his way that somehow still managed to scream that he was more than ready to be married. He stepped closer to Ian, raised up on his toes, and gently pressed their mouths together.

“Been ready for years.”

* * *

The distance to the courthouse from the train station was a short walk. Getting engaged was such a heat of the moment decision that they hadn’t considered all the other bits and bobbles of getting married. The more Mickey thought on it, the more random traditions associated with weddings and marriages came to mind, and he felt himself getting a bit antsy and confused.

“Are we getting like… fuckin’ rings or somethin’?” he asked Ian, brow furrowed in contemplation, attempting to covertly peak at his ring finger so he could imagine what it would look like adorned.

Ian hummed. “I don’t know. Do you want rings?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but… do we even have time to get ‘em? What about money? I know we don’t got the cash for gold or anything.”

“I feel like Fiona mentioned that they have, like, cheap rings for sale at the courthouse. I guess you ask the clerk when you sign the license or something,” Ian said, now also cycling through the other intricacies that they had glossed over. Damn, marriage was an event absolutely laced with traditions.

Mickey stayed quiet for a moment. “What about vows?”

“I know what I wanna say,” Ian replied immediately with a nod of his head, placing a hand on the small of Mickey’s back and pulling them closer together.

Mickey did, too. He knew exactly what he wanted to say—he’d workshopped his vows when he blurted them out at Ian on the porch all those years ago, but now he was getting that commitment back. He ran his fingers around the spot where a wedding ring would sit, pinching the skin to see if he was okay with how it would feel. He had worn a wedding ring before—some big, ugly, clunky thing that was as worthless as the union it symbolized—and he hadn’t cared about what it meant or how it felt to wear. But suddenly, he felt this overwhelming sensation to have a reminder of his and Ian’s relationship on him at all times, and the thought of not having such a symbol constantly gracing his skin made him feel somewhat empty. Perhaps their wedding wouldn’t be the grand spectacle that he had idly dreamed of over the years, but Ian seemed sure about it, and that was all Mickey cared about. It would be something small, intimate, and just for them.

The courthouse entered their view.

“Yeah. Think I know what I wanna say, too.”


End file.
